


Ventli

by Arithanas



Category: Mexican Religion and Lore
Genre: F/F, Female Character of Color, Mention of abduction, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mayahuel took a long turn to get the sacrifice that pleased her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ventli

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Borusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/gifts).



_Zoatzin queman ticonitas tonatiuh_  
_ica moyolo xionpaqui_  
(Woman, when you look at the sun  
smile with all your heart)  
~Icnocuicatl, Natalio Hernández

Xipil let her spindle run, twisting the fiber in the perpetual cycle of the strand. Her mind entertained different thoughts, work was monotonous.

When heart is heavy life seem senseless. Xipil’s heart was burdened and brimming with the taste of burning corn. She should have been sleeping, but she can’t, not when the dirt beneath her was drier than the filaments in her hands. What would it become to this land if rains don’t nourish the agave?

Xipil closed her eyes, unwilling to think of the morrow’s worry.

Her eyes rose to the dark sky, the tizintimime had started their daily battle against the sun and the cihuateteo rushed over the land, desperate to steal life before the sunshine turned them to their place on west, near Mictlan. Her mind idled in the idea of the man who slept in the corner, under the slept of whichever Centzon Totochtzin lived in the pulque.

Xipil stopped her fingers, trying hard to hold the tears in check.

It was the fault of the stars, of that ill-fated day when she drew breath. She was virtuous and industrious and when her mother lost the battle of childbirth, her father respected her wish to serve the house and to raise the children, to pat the corn and made tortillas more fine than the feathers of birds. She has no use for a man other than her father and lord; her heart not longed for other children but her siblings. In the bottom of her heart, Xipil knew her spirit was bonded to another woman, but the head on her shoulders knew it never could be.

The tear ran down her bronzed skin, and made its way to the spindle, wetting the yarn some other woman started.

Oh, work can’t take the shame away.

The feeling exploded on her chest, the words she could spat to hurt that man died in her palate. It was her fate; it was not her place to fight the gods. She sobbed without noise, cried without display, died and drew breathe.

In this hour when the vengeful spirits of mothers who never touched the children roamed the truth was clear: she was not home when the sun set, she could be dead for all her family cared. Xipil was dead to the people who brought her to be a prize worthy of being stolen.

The door was open, but she has nowhere to run; there was life in her body but no love to run to.

The spindle and the dry ixtle where forgotten in the floor. Her breathe will be used to give that man to Tlazoltéotl, but never to confess her worth was over, since she was more than the work of her hands and more than the life in her belly. Xipil rose from the floor and wiped her face with those hands; she would cross the threshold, for she was a gem far too precious for that man, she rather will be taken by the tizintimime…

Her feet carried her away from the ill-fated house, her hands extended to take the night in her hand, hopping for the touch of a skeletal claw, but there was only void. Xipil breathed the air of the breaking dawn, that air who belong neither to the living or the dead and started to walk toward the cross road, praying in her heart to be found.

The strange thing with prayer is that you never knew who’s hearing.

Xipil knew that her supplications had been heard, the rabbit that crossed he path was not a rabbit at all, for rabbits don’t make her heart spring with joy and hope. She rushed to pick the rabbit up, but the messenger ran to the agave field. Xipil followed it, through the arid parcels, among agaves gray from lack of water, without considering the serrated leaves.

Her flesh met the touch of the spike, but his heart was attending the call of the goddess, for only she could send such a messenger.

After a while, she missed the rabbit but there was no need to fret. Xipil noticed the superb agave with large, round leaves, full moisture amidst its parched peers; the long quiote was hoisted against the dead of night. Xipil was in Her presence, and she approached respectfully, making a long detour for the sake of not disturbing the lady who slept in the agave.

As Xipil turned, the agave slowly opened his leaves, making the cracking noise as the heart became undone. The first thing he saw was Xipil the turtle head peeking behind a leaf, then the shell and then the foot, stained with the same blue color of the dawn.

Xipil when to her knees, her forehead on the parched land, in reverence and addressed the lady Mayahuel in the most respectful tone: “Oh, lady, my lady, oh great lady, mother of that which is born of the earth and of that which clothes us and sustains us; mother of joy in drink and mother of all of ours, how may this humble girl serve you today, of all days, when you choose to cast your eyes on the most minor of your children?”

The foot came closer to Xipil’s head and she kissed it, as she needed to make sure of her fortune. Each kiss landed on the tinted skin with devotion and grateful tears followed each for all was clear now: her abduction was made under Her auspices, She sent Ometochtli to set on that man’s head and he was just a tool to bring Xipil’s to the presence of Her.

The hand that held the double strand of adultery and damnation touched Xipil’s face and guided her upward, toward the tortoise shell, towards her generous womb and the belly marked by her many pregnancies. Xipil, in her knees, kissed that gate of life with reverence and knew the taste of groundwater that nurtures life.

Since the gods can’t take purity of those who were deemed worthy, but only bestow eternal gifts, Xipil felt her desire rise and her ears were filled with the voices of thousands of bird, startled by the crack of the new day. Xipil dared to raise her eyes and those were filled to brim with the beauty of those pure lines; here and there yellow dots, as quartz veins in the metal, added kindness to her fierce expression. Mayahuel smiled under the jade septum ring. The lady was pleased by the offering; Xipil felt her life had reached its summit.

Mayahuel guided her offer to her lap, touching Xipil on the belly, over the clothes, before moving upwards, cupping the virgin breast before presenting the double strand to the woman her face was kind when she demanded the utmost sacrifice.

Xipil didn’t hesitate; her hands touched the cotton rope and put it around her long neck.

Mayahuel smiled, the sky cracked.

Xipil bowed her head and put her lips to that breast which endlessly poured pulque and let drunkenness accompany her to the land of the dead.

Rain covered the earth while the sacrifice was claimed by the goddess.

**Author's Note:**

> If my lessons of Pre-Hispanic cultures doesn't fail me, _ventli_ is world one should use for the offering to the gods.


End file.
